never forget that day three weeks later when she’d glanced at the calendar and realized her period was late and her knees had given way as she prayed. But even that scrap of mercy had been too much to ask for.
“How long does it take her to pee?” a plaintive voice moaned at Robyn’s ear.
She looked over to see a red-haired waif. Some starlet whose name Robyn wouldn’t waste energy remembering.
“Well?” the young woman said. “Shouldn’t you go check on her? Isn’t that, like, your job?”
Only if Portia was peeing in the hall and the paparazzi were snapping photos.
Robyn had a good idea what her client was doing and it wasn’t a bodily function, unless that included “inhaling.” Last year, Portia had spent a month in rehab. She hadn’t been addicted to anything except publicity, and realized rehab had been a sure way to get it. There, she’d made new friends who’d expected her to snort the coke they smuggled in. So Portia Kane became quite possibly the first person ever to become addicted while in rehab.
Still, given the choice between checking on Portia or listening to this starlet whine . . . Robyn rose unsteadily and headed for the back rooms.
ROBYN
Portia wasn’t in the washroom. Robyn even peeked under the stalls for her Jimmy Choos, ignoring the outraged chirps of the chorus line reapplying lipstick at the mirrors. That row of young women, shoulder to shoulder, gave Robyn a good idea where Portia was.
While her client didn’t mind having her drug problems splashed across the tabloids, she wasn’t nearly as open about letting people actually see her using. If the washroom was busy, she’d go in search of a more private place.
Robyn could just head back to the club and wait, but walking—and thinking—was clearing her head.
The first two doors she reached were labeled Private, which to Portia would scream privacy. But both were locked. Robyn continued on. As she neared the end, something clattered around the corner.
She froze, listening.
A low moan. She envisioned rounding the corner to see a couple. She cleared her throat—loudly—and listened for muttered oaths or exclamations. A moment of silence, then running footsteps. She rounded the corner to see the exit door fly open, a woman’s figure disappearing through it.
She started going after her, then replayed the pounding footsteps and knew they hadn’t come from Portia’s four-inch heels. She looked down the hall. There was only one door—half open, dark inside. She guessed that’s where the woman—or couple—had fled from, but she should check it for Portia, just to be thorough.
Stepping through the darkened doorway, her foot knocked something. She bent, fingers closing around metal.
A gun.
Her startled brain gave the command to drop it, but she stopped herself. With her luck, someone would find it and use it in a crime . . . with her prints all over it. Better to find a staff member and hand it in.
As she turned to go, a moan sounded behind her. The hairs on her neck rose. She squinted into the dark room. A pale figure lay crumpled on the floor.
“R-Rob?” Portia’s voice was a papery whisper.
Robyn raced forward and dropped beside her, letting the gun clatter to the floor. Her gaze snagged on the dark stain spreading over Portia’s blouse.
“Cell . . .” Portia whispered. “Cell phone . . .”
“Right.” Robyn fumbled for her purse, digging out a handful of crap and dumping it before finding her cell. “I’m calling 911.”
“No, my . . .”
Portia’s voice trailed off in a rattle. Then she went still. Robyn shook Portia’s shoulder. She didn’t blink, just stared. Sightless. Lifeless.
Robyn lifted her phone, fingers trembling as she dialed 911. Then she remembered the figure running out the back door. Portia’s killer had just left. Robyn might still be able to catch her, or at least get a better look at her.
The 911 dispatcher answered. As Robyn ran from the room, she quickly explained what had happened—that Portia Kane was shot, wasn’t breathing and needed an ambulance. She gave the location as she raced out the exit door. It was shutting behind her when she heard a scream.
Outside the room where Portia lay, a server was looking straight at Robyn. Their eyes met. The girl screamed again, backpedaling, her hands flying up.
“No!” Robyn called. “I—”
She lunged to catch the door. It shut with a clang. She grabbed for the handle. There wasn’t one—it was solid metal. She banged a couple of times, but she knew it was useless—that girl wasn’t